


Bring me my bow of burning gold

by Laurentia



Category: Home Fires (UK TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-28 14:40:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6333049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laurentia/pseuds/Laurentia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Minerva scowled and said nothing, but Juno could not contain herself."</p><p>or; How to (just about) cope when the world is mad, your husband is away and your sister thinks she Boudicca.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bring me my bow of burning gold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cassanabaratheon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassanabaratheon/gifts).



> A/N: I just love them so much and I didn't realise I had quite this many feels when I started. I wish I could say this had some greater purpose but it's mostly just a series of missing scenes/headcanons XD

  _"Minerva scowled and said nothing, but Juno could not contain herself."*_

* * *

i. 

Their mother died when Sarah was six and Frances eight and their father, bless him, was an otherwise excellent man but Sarah has always thought he was at a bit of a loss as to what to do with two daughters.

He was never unkind, she remembers fondly, always indulged their fancies and kept them happy but she has suspected all her life that he, like most flesh, was so overwhelmed by the force of Frances’ personality that he didn’t quite know what to make of his prepubescent child advising him on what to serve with the salmon. She, inevitably, and beginning a pattern that would last all their lives, was lumped in with her sister, considered bossy but good-hearted, but whilst she always, _always_ had Frances to look up to and ask advice of – she remembers all too well the hysterically mortifying moment when Frances had tried to advise her on wedding night etiquette and Sarah had jumped in as quickly as she possibly could to insist she _already knew perfectly well thank you very much Frances please just pour the sherry –_ but Frances? Frances had made her own way, forged her own unshakable set of opinions and never been met with resistance she couldn’t batter down.

So whenever Joyce Cameron sits at the front of the hall, lofty and untouchable and with a will of iron that matches Frances push for push, well, Sarah’s read Freud and doubts it would take his expertise to spot the obvious.

Frances, for all that she thinks she’s a leading pillar of the community – and she is and Sarah knows this, but finds it amusing that most people are just so overwhelmed by her that they acquiesce to avoid the inevitable days of being “convinced” – simply isn’t very good with older women. And unluckily for her the majority of Great Paxford’s WI was made up of women the other side of sixty to them.

Sarah isn’t much better to be fair to Frances, but she at least has the good sense to keep her mouth shut. Unfortunately for her, no matter how shut she keeps hers Frances will always find a way to speak for the both of them and once again they’re lumped in together and she’s expected to do something about her sister. Controlling Frances has never been easy and its certainly not as straightforward as Joyce thinks it is and so when the old cow demands she does just that in front of everyone her natural instinct is to push back. And lord doesn’t she know where she’s gotten _that_ from!

Joyce behaves as though there’s a special password to make her elder sister compliant that only she’s privy to, which is rubbish unless the words are ‘ _yes, fine, alright, have your way_ ’ and even if there was something nothing on God’s green and pleasant land would make her embarrass Frances in front of Joyce bloody Cameron like that. Which did usually leave her between a rock with a big mouth and a hard place with the face of a gorgon but she had learnt patience from her husband and controlling Frances was not for the likes of Joyce.

But that wasn’t to say it was impossible. Difficult perhaps, but then the most rewarding things often were. But impossible? Certainly not. Not for her at any rate.

One just needed to know the right words and she always knew. (Luckily, so did Frances.)

* * *

ii.

“Blackberries?”

“Blackberries,” Frances said with authority, as though it is the final word on the matter and Sarah isn’t stood opposite her with her arms crossed, daring Frances to ignore that she has just been asked a question and not echoed.

“You don’t even like blackberries.”

“It doesn’t matter what I like.”

“They make you come out in a rash.”

“They do _not_.”

“They do too. Remember when daddy had Mrs Croft make that crumble for my birthday and you’d thrown up all of yours by supper?”

“That was illness, not a rash and that custard was on the turn.”

“ _I_ was fine,” Sarah said wryly, lips turning up into a smirk. “ _You_ on the other hand didn’t go to school for two days.”

“It’s hardly my fault you have the constitution of an ox.”

Sarah raised her eyebrow pointedly but didn’t speak, knowing that Frances would eventually fill the silence as she always did. 

“I’ll wear gloves.”

“In the middle of summer?”

“Sarah,” Frances said in warning tones. Sarah lifted her chin defiantly and simultaneously they both smothered smiles at the memory of poor Mrs Croft running around after Frances, convinced she’d poisoned the doctor’s daughter, and promptly being run ragged by said daughter in the interest of obtaining more sweet treats to share with her sister. “I’ve already said I’ll do it.”

“I know you have,” she said levelly. “But perhaps you could be just as useful without ending up looking like a plague victim?”

“And how would you suggest I do that?”

“Supervising? You’re usually the best at putting people in the right place,” Sarah shrugged idly, as though the notion hadn’t been forming in her mind for the last hour. She smiled before her sister realised quite how obviously she was being led and linked her arm through Frances’ as they finally left the hall behind for the evening outside. “I want you to look after yourself or else Joyce bloody Cameron will swoop back in while you’re on your sickbed.”

“As my second in command I’d expect you to defend me in my absence,” Frances stated, mirth already overcoming her every expression and Sarah knew this battle was won. It had probably been won the moment she had pointed out the opportunity for being a general rather than a foot soldier was on the horizon.

“ _Second in command_?” She said with mock outrage, blinking in the low lying evening sun.

“Athena to my Hera,” Frances declared, only laughing at the inevitable eye roll she received.

* * *

iii.

Frances in victory was everything Sarah ever expected her to be: ebullient, slightly smugger than usual and giving speeches to anyone she passes about change. Her sister hits all three of her expectations within the first five minutes of her presidency and Sarah would laugh if it weren’t for the very glaring fact that she was yet to let go of her hand.

It wasn’t overly obvious just yet. Or at least nobody had given them any funny looks as they all made their way into the bar downstairs and half the guild – _their_ half, Sarah’s started thinking of them as being – ended up staying for a celebratory drink. A drink that had turned into two or three but they weren’t being crowded out by silent brutes this time and Sarah suspected Steph’s been the one whizzing around telling all the men to _give over talking about bloody cricket pitch, course it’s not going anywhere!_

“We’re lucky to have her,” she muttered to Frances, one hand lifting her gin and lemon whilst the other remains in her sister’s clutches under the table. Quite _why_ Frances is still holding onto her she doesn’t know yet but she’s relatively sure she will by the end of the night and Sarah can suffer through a few more gins to find out.

“Who?”

“Steph.” Sarah narrowed her eyes speculatively, deciding then and there that she wasn't going to get anywhere being subtle. “What is it?”

“What’s what?”

“You should by rights be rallying everybody in a chorus of _Ding Dong the Witch is Dead_ but instead you look like you’re about to face a firing squad.”

“That’s a little on the nose don’t you think Sarah? Even for you-”

“Spare me the feeble efforts to change the subject,” she drawled, nudging Frances gently in the ribs. “It won’t work with me and you know it.”

“Do you really think I can do it?”

The tone of uncertainty was one Sarah couldn’t recall ever having heard from her sister. In fact she had long since held onto the childish belief that Frances’ version of uncertainty was just to be indignant that there might be an alternative to her own way and she sat for a long, speechless moment staring at this foreign woman next to her.

“You mean the leadership don’t you?”

“Well, of course I do,” Frances snapped.

“Well then, _of course I do_.”

“Do you think you could do that without the tone of mockery?”

“No,” Sarah’s lips twitched. “You can’t honestly be having doubts _now_?”

“Things are going to become a great deal harder before they get better, Sarah. Am I really the person to lead us?”

Resisting the urge to point out to Frances that she wasn’t actually Churchill and they were just a branch of the WI - she really oughtn't to have any more gin, one more and she would likely say something she would have to spend a week making amends for - Sarah squeezed her sister’s hand.

“Are any of us?” She asked wryly.

“ _One_ of us certainly was,” Frances muttered tartly. “Whatever we might think of her there was no denying that Joyce knew how to command people when the occasion arose.”

“That’s as may be,” she drawled reluctantly. “But Joyce wouldn’t have let Steph within twenty yards of the meeting hall, or any of her friends who, I might add, now make up half our number. She only let Claire in because she thought she could manipulate her and, well,” she grinned and caught Frances’ gaze. “You might run us into the ground but at least we’ll never have to listen to Joyce waxing rhapsodic about tapestry making again!”

Laughter erupted from both of them at the same time and when Steph reached their table a minute later to find out what the joke was Frances finally let go of her hand to reach for her drink. She did nudge her foot closer under the table though and Sarah nudged back as she informed their new member of past horrors.

* * *

iv.

Fortunately for Sarah she had already finished the vast majority of her champagne – or at least what was masquerading for champagne after the doctor had surreptitiously spoken to the serving staff to make sure it all went a little bit further – and so when she felt her elbow being unceremoniously grabbed she barely spilled a drop. It also helped that her sister, after a little bit of not-champagne, was usually predictable and Sarah had been anticipating just this moment for at least ten minutes. Anticipating it by drinking just as much because she knew Frances well enough to know not to argue.

“Come on lazy bones, I want to dance!”

Grinning from ear to ear Frances had a few curls loose falling free and her cheeks were becoming ever-so-slightly pink and Sarah grinned right back as she allowed herself to be pulled towards the makeshift dance floor that was noticeably livelier now that the newly weds had departed and the jauntier songs had started.

Unsurprisingly Frances led.

“You know, I could be the man for once?”

“Oh you know I can’t do it the other way around,” Frances whined, her smile never leaving her face and Sarah rolled her eyes as she allowed herself to be spun. In Frances’ defence she wasn’t lying and really it was her fault that her sister could barely dance properly so she shouldn’t mock – years spent teaching _her_ had left Frances at an awkward disadvantage as a teenager and it wasn’t until she had met Peter that the issue of dancing had ceased to be a problem.

Peter had more left feet than a millipede and Sarah could only imagine him in a dance hall if the building was being dedicated to him for a charitable donation.

“You’re drunk,” Sarah muttered gleefully when she was spun back under her sister’s arm and Frances took her waist.

“I am not.” Frances lasted a whole second of footwork before she lowered her voice. “Well, I might have had a few glasses of wine and Will Campbell brought me a whiskey but Peter isn’t at home so it scarcely matters.”

It was said casually but Sarah knew the weight of his absence lay heavily on her sister and she had seen earlier over Adam’s shoulder quite how mournful Frances looked all alone whilst everybody else was dancing. It’s a feeling she’s decidedly unprepared for herself and one that _frightened_  her because she has never had the same kind of strength as Frances and she really did have every intention of just enjoying tonight but before she can stop herself Sarah finds herself blurting: “Adam goes in two days.”

Frances, for once silent, instead smiles sadly and pulls her closer until Sarah's head was resting on her sister’s shoulder, and her fingers are stroking soft hair the opposite end of the tawny spectrum to her own. Sarah has already promised herself she won’t cry today or tomorrow or on the morning the bus departs because she has a strange, vain need for Adam to remember her without blotchy cheeks and watery eyes but it’s almost as hard in Frances’ arms as it is in his and she allowed herself a moment before she recovered herself.

Sniffing heavily Sarah lifted her head.

“Ignore me, I’m being silly. It’s a wedding.”

“You’re not being silly and even if you were it wouldn’t stop this being a wedding, would it?”

 Sarah nodded as she felt her face crumple again and she let herself be held tighter, burying her face in Frances' shoulder until she was absolutely sure she was't going to cry. 

"Come and stay with me. I'll open up the room next to mine and you can stay as long as you like-"

"No," Sarah said heavily, nudging her nose against the seam of Frances' dress. "I'll have to get used to it eventually and I can't just leave the airmen alone."

Half a dozen heavy-booted airmen were also, she knew from experience, marginally less noisy than Frances in the mornings. 

"You're always welcome."

"I know. Thank you."

"I suppose it would be a redundant move anyway - you already clutter up my sitting room most days as it is."

"You have better biscuits," her lips twitched as she lifted her head. 

"And no gates. We could be raided for McVitie's."

 Laughing Sarah took the lead - briefly - and managed to catch her sister unawares for a spin. 

"Well maybe I'll have to move in then: to protect your borders." 

 "I can't think of anybody better," blithely chuckling Frances took her spot again and Sarah fell into step. "And if you need to bring your cadre of airmen then feel free!"

* * *

v.

Decking her house with festive trimming was the very last thing Sarah felt like doing during the month of advent and, other than the necessary church adornments for Adam’s expectant flock, she left her house guests to it for the most part – even encouraged them to decorate themselves in the faint hope they might break Adam's stuffy great-aunt's equally stuffed birds of paradise that adorn their tree like inappropriately coloured limpets every year - and decamps entirely to Frances' by the 18th. Her sister has the uncanny ability to make her feel as though nothing is expected of her whilst also keeping her entirely active and after a whirlwind few days of delivering cards and making crackers and creating centrepieces that go immediately in the bin and selecting wines it’s Christmas Eve already and she barely even noticed.

Which is a blessing, as is Frances. Most of the time.

“Do you think I’ll get a spot in the Tate Gallery?”

Frances lasted roughly three seconds before laughing into her wine at the centrepiece Sarah had eventually made and sneaked onto the dining table, achieving nothing with her artistic efforts other than marring a perfectly decent view of the salt and pepper shakers.

“What?” She grinned into her own glass before schooling her mildly flushed face back into seriousness with all the skill of a vicar’s wife. “Is there something funny?”

By common assent they have always assumed that between the two of them they might actually be the worst at crafts in the entire history of the Women’s Institute. After years of raising unimpressed eyebrows at endless attempts at needlework and knitting and the brief but memorable foray into watercolours in the summer of ’35 Joyce had finally given them both up as useless – much to their amusement – and had let their contributions to any fundraising be baking-based forevermore.

“It looks like something Picasso would have nightmares about.”

No amount of years as a vicar’s wife could save Sarah’s face from crumpling into laughter at the bemused expression on her sister’s as she poked at the centrepiece with her dessert spoon, looking almost suspicious that it might spring to life and eat them.

In hindsight her selection of the wines may have been a little too abundant in range but Frances had given her free reign and said Hitler would run out of soldiers before Peter ran out of Beaujolais so they were already on their second bottle and were saving most of their food rations for the following day. Suffice to say Sarah felt rather warm and as though she was currently walking a tight-rope between falling into hysterics at her terrible artwork and sobbing into her pillow about Adam not being here.

“Bin it. We haven’t had a centrepiece since Aunt Helena died so I highly doubt we’ll miss its presence,” she sobered in terms of amusement and took a deep gulp from her glass to compensate.

Relinquishing her spoon Frances leaned back in her seat, taking a moment to close her eyes and breathe deep, fingers toying with the stem of her own glass and trying to ignore the telling chink of the decanter as Sarah refilled hers. 

“I’m glad you’re here.”

“I should think so.”

“I’d have worried about you being all alone.”

“I’m not all alone. There’s the airmen for once thing and Mrs Franklin checks daily whether I want to start discussing floral arrangements for the spring and-”

“You know what I mean Sarah.”

Sarah fidgeted with her glass.

“I might say the same thing to you.”

“Meaning?”

She rolled her eyes behind closed lids, in no mood for this argument.

“Nothing. Really, just... sorry, I think I’m just tired.” She smiled tightly. “Ignore me.”

“Would I ever do that?”

Sarah’s smile became easier as her sister’s stockinged foot nudged against hers under the table.

“Come on, lets put you to bed.”

“Put me to bed?!” She spluttered, half-laughing, half-incredulous that Frances was taking the glass from her hand and tipping the contents back into the decanter, apparently having finally cottoned on to the lesson of _waste not_.

“Of course,” Frances held her hands out for her to take and tugged Sarah to her feet. “Or else Father Christmas won’t come.”

Huffing childishly through their bursts of laughter Sarah allowed herself to be taken up the stairs, realising only halfway up that Frances was supporting rather more of her weight than she had thought and that she probably shouldn’t have indulged in Peter’s excellent vintages so much. Leaning her head down on Frances’ shoulder she felt her sister’s fingers slip through hers.

“Thank you,” she muttered forlornly as Frances bypassed the guest bedroom without question and led them both into the master, apparently sensing how little she wished to be alone.

Undressing was a struggle. She gave up any thought of brushing her teeth when her second stocking proved troublesome – Frances, already changed, apparently at lightning speed, helped her because of course she would – and by the time she had snuggled down into Frances’ high thread count linen she was already feeling too drowsy to consider moving till morning.

“Before you transform into Sleeping Beauty you might consider that it’s past midnight.”

Sarah blearily opened her eyes and shuffled closer to Frances, lifting her head to witness that the clock's hands had indeed just past the twelve. Somewhere in the depths of the hallway she could hear the grandfather clock clanging quietly. She lowered her head back down on Frances’ shoulder and reached around her sister’s waist in a half-hug, half-slump as the noise downstairs became dimmer in her head.

“Merry Christmas Frances.”

Faintly she felt a kiss being pressed against her forehead and if her sister returned the good will she didn’t need to hear it.  

* * *

vi.

"Good morning sleepyhead."

Sarah groaned and buried her head back into Frances' torso, the dim, sunless morning light being the worst Christmas present she could ever envision, and she could _feel_ her sister's amusement, even if she couldn't see it but thankfully Frances was kind enough not to move. 

"How're you feeling?"

"Rotten." She tentatively opened her eyes again and when the world seemed reasonably steady she felt marginally buoyed. At least she wasn't likely to be useless all day. "What time is it?"

"Quarter past six."

"What?!" She squawked indignantly against Frances' teal satin-clad chest. "That's insane Frances. Even Adam doesn't get up this early and this is his busiest day of the year-"

And today he would likely be busier than ever before, surrounded by other men far from home and their families looking for something familiar to give them hope during their darkest hours. Adam was just the man for that job, she couldn't deny that now, but it didn't stop her hating that fact with all the fury she had. He might not ever see a Christmas with her again, might find himself in God's hands before she had a chance to tell him all the things she always forgot to tell him when they were actually together and it seemed much more important to live than to spend long periods talking about what it meant to live  _together_. 

She was crying before she could stop herself and Frances had apparently anticipated this. That or she had some need of handkerchiefs in bed. 

"Oh my darling," Frances muttered against her hair, holding her so close Sarah had to shuffle to find a slither of space to catch a breathe. 

"All I can think about is what he's doing every minute of every day."

"I'm sure he's thinking about you too."

"He's not worried whether I'm cold, or sick or injured though is he? He knows I'm alright but for all I know today's the day he'll get hit by a bullet or a bomb-"

"Sarah."

"-and I might not even know for weeks because the posts bad enough at the best of times but at this time of year-"

"Sarah."

"-it might get lost and then I might never know-"

"Sarah!"

"Ow, that hurts."

"Shut up then."

She nodded against Frances' chest with willing obedience.

"What am I supposed to do Frances?"

"Go back to sleep for a few hours. Have a long bath when you get up. Eat. Drink. Open those worryingly lumpy looking presents from Claire. You can't change anything Sarah, and Adam wouldn't want you crying into your pillow all day."

"Technically it's  _your_ pillow."

" _Technically_ it's my chest but we won't quibble."

"You're quibbling now."

"I am not."

"You are too."

"Go to sleep darling."

"I'm not letting you up, you're comfy for a quibbler."

* * *

vii.

"You know I honestly don't think mother would have minded this much?"

"Stop trying to find excuses - do you have your end?"

Sarah nodded grudgingly, holding tight to a rolled up end of cloth and hoping Frances has the good sense not to pull the other end too taut and shower them both with soil. 

“Right, over there then with the others.”

Two hours. Two bloody hours that she might have spent doing anything but helping her sister move their mother’s fifty year old roses from their current home in Frances’ garden to their new one in the greenhouse where they could weather the war and give up their place to potatoes. At least this was the last batch. Unless Frances decided to rescue their uncle Frank’s begonias next out of deference to her namesake, the very thought of which inspired horror in Sarah’s very soul, along with her aching arms.

“Finally,” she groaned as they carefully slid the blooms from the old and now destroyed bedsheet into the waiting pots Frances had painstakingly set up earlier. Sarah threw in a few half-hearted handfuls of soil to cover the roots in an attempt to show willing but Frances didn’t seem too put out to do it herself. “Tea?”

“Have Claire bring it out here.”

“Frances-” Sarah tried not to think about the length of the path the begonias trailed by but she couldn’t stop herself and she had to hold back a whimper.

“I thought we could sit in the sun for a while,” her sister smiled and Sarah didn’t imagine for a second that Frances wasn’t entirely aware of her musings and teasing her accordingly. “When it finally stopped raining last weekend I dug out the old table and chairs. We haven’t used them since...well... years really, but they should still be perfectly serviceable.”

Sarah smiled blandly as she nodded her approval, sportingly ignoring the vague reference to the summer neither of them spoke about if they could avoid it and the lone thing that their husbands had bonded over in twenty-odd years of familial relations. Not that _they_ ever spoke about it either but the boys spoke of only general things when they were forced to interact whereas she and Frances had shared more or less every thought all their lives. Of course sharing too much had been the problem that had emerged in the summer of 1919 when the post-war haze of joyous excitement had made them forget that they were still human and the reason why they had no cousins became painfully aware to both of them.

The choice between living or fading away in a sickbed as their mother had was not a difficult one, but that didn’t mean the memory didn’t sting. As she idled back towards the house, stretching out her arms as she walked until she caught sight of Claire hovering in the doorway, apparently having anticipated their want and already eagerly carrying the tray towards her, she wondered whether they would ever be able to talk about it. Or if they really needed to after so long.

At least neither of them had been alone in it, which was a strange comfort.

“Thank you,” she smiled gratefully as she took the tray from Claire and immediately turned back around.

“Oh, I don’t mind carrying it Mrs Collingborne-”

“Its fine Claire, she hasn’t entirely worn me out yet.”

Frances, indefatigable as ever, had managed to plant all the roses properly and was brushing the excess dirt onto the ground when she came back.

“Come on, leave it. This’ll get cold, god only knows how long Claire was waiting there for us to finish.”

Glancing around the greenhouse, as though she expected another task to leap up before her, Frances looked oddly awkward for a moment, grasping her fists together in a nervous habit Sarah had spotted more and more of late. 

"Frances," she said gentler, raising an eyebrow when she finally caught her sister's attention, and smiling softly. "I'm sure mother won't mind that we've moved them."

"I know."

Frances followed her out into the surprisingly abundant afternoon sunshine, pulling the old wooded chair into place for her. 

"What happened to the cast iron ones by the way?"

"Joyce. When they took the gates I said they should take anything else they wanted in an unnecessarily loud voice-"

"To annoy her?"

"Well obviously. But I forgot that they were still in the garden and I could hardly say no."

"You got rid of Peter's mother's furniture and irritated Joyce? I'd say that was a success all round."

"Yes, there are some benefits of war as it turns out." 

* * *

viii.

“It _will_ work.”

"It took Claire two days to work out which room was which in your downstairs hall Frances, and she can actually see."

"Yes well, no one could ever accuse Claire of being overly observant, even with perfect vision."

That at least was true and Sarah considered it a point to make a tactical retreat to fiddle with the half-empty Chanel No.5 bottle on Frances' dressing table as she pondered if there was any way at all to make her sister realise that good intentions were often not enough. She pulled the cap off the bottle and brought the applicator glass to her throat, dabbing it delicately and immediately being overwhelmed with the scent. It was much stronger than the floral aromas she usually preferred - when she bothered at all - and reminded her strongly of attempts at making rose perfume in the tin bath when they had been children. Suffice to say they had learnt after the first batch that half the garden wasn't actually necessary and had stunk for a week. 

"What if there's an air raid and she's alone?"

"Oh ye of little faith-"

"No faith actually," she interjected, reaching for the Je Reviens instead. 

"I already have a plan for that and I have every certainty that Isobel will rise to the challenge."

"She's an evacuee Frances, not a sponge cake."

"I am well aware," she drawled, dryness dripping from her twitching lips. "But I'm determined that all of us will at least try."

Sarah shook her head at her own reflection as she sniffed the new perfume gingerly and decided against it immediately. Putting it back she glanced over her shoulder to find Frances' attention was taken up with the garden and she took the opportunity to delve into the lipsticks instead. 

"She's learning the garden easily enough."

"This might actually be the most ridiculous thing you've ever done."

"Oh I hardly think so," Frances quipped back with a smirk, folding her arms as she peered out of the window at the garden below where Isobel was being given a tour by Claire. 

"No, you're right," Sarah replied thoughtfully, uncapping the ruby red. "I still think telling Peter you were my age when you met him takes the rosette."

"Why would I have told him I was forty-six?"

Sarah twisted in her seat to better use the cap as a projectile missile. 

"I _meant_ ," she laughed as Frances plucked the cap from inside her cardigan. "Giving him my birthday so he'd think you were younger."

"It worked perfectly well."

"He kept buying you birthstones and they were all wrong!"

"It was hardly his fault."

"No, it was  _yours._ "

"I told him eventually."

"Oh yes, a whole jewellery box later."

"You know, he replaced every single piece with the right stone after we were married," and just like that Sarah could see her sister was lost in pleasant thoughts as she stared out of the window, looking through Claire and Isobel to another time. Sarah turned back to the mirror with a fond smile, tilting her chin forwards as she brought the carmine to her lips. It was considerably bolder than any colour she usually wore and stood our quite garishly against her blue blouse but, she reasoned, she wouldn't necessarily be wearing  _this_ outfit with this lipstick so perhaps that wasn't too much of an issue? It  _did_ bring out more colour in her cheeks than had been there in recent weeks so that was certainly something in favour of-

"What do you need lipstick for by the way? Adam isn't coming home is he?"

Immediately Sarah pulled two tissues in rapid succession from the box and swiped at her lips. 

"No." In the mirror the reddish stain across her lips reflected back tauntingly and she turned in her seat again, preferring to face Frances than herself. "I just felt like cheering myself up."

"By stealing from me?"

"Well obviously. It is my duty as sister."

* * *

ix.

Their arguments, when they came, tended to be swift, largely stupid and forgotten about within a few minutes, but the silence that fell over them as they walked home from Steph’s was quite new and Sarah had no idea what to say. Irritatingly her natural instinct to follow Frances’ lead was making matters worse but her sister was unusually marble-like despite being perfectly animated with Steph five minutes ago whilst discussing shooting lessons for the rest of the WI, so it was abundantly clear who Frances was ignoring. She should never have mentioned Peter – it _was_ quite rich for her of all people to be throwing about implications of loneliness and overcompensating when- _no, don’t think about him_ – and now she had no idea how long Frances’ mood might last because they _never_ had moods and if this was another new experience that the war was going to impose on her then she hoped at least it would be a swift one off.

Sarah sighed and picked up her pace, valiantly ignoring the squelch of her wellies in the mud as she tried to remain dignified. Frances followed her lead and barely left her side and Sarah muted her thought that if they held hands they would probably look no different than they had when they were children and the Hills has had this farm and daddy had sent them up with their son’s prescription once a month and Frances had tried to lure the love of their Labrador away from them.

“Do you want to go over the gate and across the field?”

“Not especially, but I suppose it would be quicker.”

Biting back a comment Sarah instead bit the inside of her cheek and climbed up the panels carefully, determined to pay more attention to the treacherous mud either side than she was Frances’ sulking. The wood underneath her hands was newer than it had been the last time they had been here, she noted with a pang of nostalgia, and she was just trying to remember exactly how many years it had been when the gate was suddenly swinging and she squeaked, all attempts at dignity forgotten.

“Frances!” She gripped the wood tightly and glanced over her shoulder to see her sister quite calmly moving the gate by hand, apparently having located the bolt that held it together.

“What?”

“You could have warned me!”

“I did wonder why you were climbing up.”

“I said “go over”!”

“Oh? I must have misheard you.”

“This is _ridiculous_.”

She jumped down into the mud. Flicked her foot to get the excess off and muddied Frances’ coat. Accidentally, of course.

“I’m _sorry_ I upset you, but you’re not the only one on your own you know?”

“No, I’m just the only one who’s husband _chose_...”

“What?”

“Nothing,” Frances huffed and Sarah got the impression it was mostly at her own near-slip. She closed the gate silently and locked the bolt one-handed, the other shoving into her coat pocket in a defeated slump that was so unlike Frances that Sarah forgot she had cold, damp wood mulch underneath her fingernails.

“I’m sorry Frances.”

“I know,” she said vaguely, shrugging her other hand deep into her pocket, out of Sarah’s reach. In theory anyway.

“I know you do,” she trotted after Frances, who had apparently decided to take the lead again, and slipped her arm through the crook of her sister’s, awkwardly slipping her hand across Frances’ wrist to shove it into her pocket and find her hiding hand. “Can I still come for tea?”

Frances rolled her eyes, but the first hint of a smile came through.

“I’m just a biscuit distributor to you aren’t I?”

* * *

x.

In hindsight Sarah knew she should have probably anticipated this moment from the second Joyce had handed her keys over to Frances, as though that wasn’t the Great Paxford equivalent of opening the gates of Troy to a great wooden horse, because no sooner had they all gathered on a solemn afternoon to say a surprisingly heartfelt farewell to their indomitable former leader their recalcitrant new incumbent had begun to get the gleam in her eye Sarah knew from long, _long_ experience.

So it shouldn’t have been surprising that she found herself stretched out on a camp bed in Joyce’s private air raid shelter listening to the sirens above with a lump in her throat and a cold sweat forming across her clammy skin as her heart raced faster and faster with each second until she wasn’t sure if she was going to be throw up or have an actual heart attack. Horrifying, yes. Unsettling certainly, to be trapped in what still felt so very much like Joyce’s domain, with bits and pieces of knitting and Agatha Christie novels lying around awaiting their true owner. But surprising? Not really. It was Frances after all and the moment Frances had suggested, on what was she now realised an entirely pre-planned stroll around the village, that they scout out Joyce’s private gardens to see how viable the land was she had barely managed to begin pointing out how inappropriate it was before Frances had grabbed her hand and they were in said garden, keys rattling ominously in Frances’ pocket, and then the sirens had begun.

It wasn’t like before. The many bodies and friendly faces, even if they were frightened by the unknown, had been calming and she had been able to fall into her old routine of vicar’s wife and she had felt _useful_. Here she didn’t have that crutch and Joyce’s shelter, built just for the Camerons, felt enormous by comparison; each echo rattled for longer, the shadows were darker and deeper and there was nothing to distract her but her sister’s shaky breaths. That unnerved her as much as anything. Frances shouldn’t be scared. Frances was _never_ scared. But she _was_ and Sarah could practically _feel_ her shivering in the other bed.

“It won’t be much longer,” she said, just to fill the silence, as much for her as for Frances. “It’s been hours.”

“It’s been forty minutes Sarah.”

She frowned and checked her watch. Christ.

“I...I didn’t realise. I thought I might have fallen asleep.”

“I doubt anyone could sleep through this.”

In the distance a crash came and Sarah’s felt tears prick her eyes without really knowing why. For all they knew a cat could have knocked over one of Joyce’s vases, but in the vast darkness there was no way of knowing. It certainly hadn’t sounded that quiet and Sarah felt bile rise in her throat.

“We could play a game?”

“I doubt Joyce has a Monopoly board down here.”

“I wouldn’t play that with you even if she did,” Sarah said, turning over onto her side and waiting for Frances to do the same. “You cheat.”

“I do not.”

“You do too.”

“I, _once_ I might add, made a deal to buy all the railways from Adam because he was about to go bust. That’s enterprising, not cheating.”

“It’s against the rules.”

“The rules are stupid. Why can’t you build on the railways and make them better? I would.”

“Not everybody is a born tycoon like you.” She smiled shakily, trying to focus on this familiarity, the sound of Frances’ voice, the smell of her perfume in the dark, the mild irritation mixed staunchly with deep love that couldn’t be blown apart by any bomb, the teasing flickers in her sister’s eyes as she opened her mouth to offer an inevitable reply, but all that was overcome by another wave of terror as a bang came above them, closer than before, _much_ closer and so much worse and Sarah let out a single shaking, ragged cry. “Frances!”

And her sister was up and active, because that was what Frances did best, and she slid immediately back on her bed so they could get on the same one which they should have done in the first place really, and Frances was welded against her in seconds. She buried her head into her sister’s shoulder just as another bomb struck and clung to her desperately, arms gripping so tight she was sure she was probably hurting Frances, but Frances’ arms weren’t hurting her, they were a reassuringly firm presence so she didn’t budge a tiny bit. Not even when Frances’ stupid bony knees dug into her leg.

“Don’t be frightened Sarah, I’ve got you.”

Her voice was shaking and Sarah didn’t know whether to cry or laugh that Frances was pretending for her benefit. She risked a glance up from Frances’ shoulder and the dark loomed ahead and behind them like an inky abyss but Frances’ face was closer now and she could focus on that and take comfort in Frances having teary eyes too. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever been so frightened in my life,” she said quietly, so close her nose brushed against Frances’ ear.

“I know,” and Frances hand was in her hair, stroking gently and this time her sister’s voice sounded marginally steadier. “I know.”

 

_End._

* * *

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> *Other amusingly appropriate quotes about Minerva and Juno are available:
> 
> "Minerva and Juno groaned in spirit as they sat side by side."  
> "Minerva and Juno muttered their discontent as they sat side by side."


End file.
